So, to finally get to the point of my post yesterday, which was about me being a friend-collector and never wanting to say goodbye to or grow apart from anyone… Somewhere along this road, I made pregnancy synonymous with friendship loss.
Of course, it started with Monica. She was one of my closest friends, until she got pregnant soon after I miscarried, and I couldn’t deal. And I think she couldn’t deal either, because it wasn’t exactly like her pregnancy was in accordance with her life plans, so the last thing she needed was the added stress of trying to play nice with her traumatized friend. There was nothing we could say to each other that wasn’t awkward at best, heartbreaking at worst. So we stopped talking to each other, pretty much altogether.
Since then, every time a friend gets pregnant, I am worried that this irreperable loss will be the result. This is true no matter who the friend is, no matter how much they claim to understand how I feel. Another one of my good friends is now pregnant (due in July) after suffering a loss last summer. For a while, she and I were simpatico: we’d both had devastating miscarriages; we both didn’t like being around pregnant women; we both weren’t trying again right away (though I knew she’d be ready long before I was). We used to get together and compare notes on our other pregnant friends and coworkers. Now that she’s pregnant, I haven’t seen her in months. And even though I know she and her husband are busy renovating their new home, there’s a part of me that thinks she must be avoiding me, because if you’re pregnant, and I’m this honest about how I feel about pregnancies, it must be really fucking awkward to be my friend.
I’m also worried about my pregnant
fake blog friends getting fed up with me, because as much as I am incapable of not being honest in real life, I am a thousand times more incapable of not being honest here. Which means that the best I can offer is that “happy for you, sad for me” line. Which means that I can’t wish for “sticky bean baby dust” in a comment on someone else’s post. Which means that I will, for the entirety of my friends’ gestations, be reminding them of what it felt like to be where I am, and begging them not to post ultrasound photos, belly shots, or other PTSD trigger images.
And I know that, of everyone in my life, these women understand all those feelings – because they have been here – but part of me still worries that it’ll get old after a while, and they’ll want to surround themselves with a more positive sort of energy than I can offer, and so they’ll let me fall between the cracks. Or that my own sense of being left behind will take over, and so I’ll stop following and talking to them.
I tearfully told Doug the other day, “All my friends were getting pregnant, so I went and found some friends who couldn’t get pregnant, and then they all got pregnant!” (This is both an assumption and an exaggeration, but it illustrates how pathetic I feel about the whole situation.)
Another scary possibility is that, if I keep up like this, by the time I get pregnant, no one will want to be happy for me – because I’ve been such shit at being happy for them. And I already know I’ll have a hard time being happy for myself (for similar guilt-based reasons, plus the anxiety I’m counting on feeling). When the time comes for me, I’m going to need cheerleaders. And I’m concerned that I’m slowly but surely pushing all those cheerleaders away.
Basically, I’ve concluded that, somehow or another, I will wind up with no friends. Fucking fantastic. I’m going to bed.